


The Sarnie Incident

by Mrs King of Hell (Slytherkins)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Betrayal, Castiel Will Just Wait Here Then, Gen, It's About The Principle, Mild Language, Sam Winchester is So Done, Sandwiches, brothers being brothers, sick!Dean is pitiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Mrs%20King%20of%20Hell
Summary: Dean refuses to practice self-care, so Sam resorts to tough love.





	The Sarnie Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a random tumblr drabble prompt challenge. (Prompts in bold)

“Um…why are you out of bed?” Sam asked, finding his brother in the kitchen in his bathrobe.

“Oh, thank god, you’re here. You were gone for so long,” whined Dean.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him while reaching into the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “Dude, I went to return a book to the library. I was gone half an hour, tops.”

“Well, **welcome back. Now fucking help me**,” whimpered Dean, gesturing weakly at the haphazard assortment of half-opened food items strewn across the countertop in front of him.

“Help you what? Make a sandwich?”

“Yes,” Dean confirmed emphatically, “fucking help me make a sandwich, I’m starving. I got all this stuff out, but I can’t…” He trailed off with a form-wilting sigh and tugged his bathrobe to a close over his wife beater and boxers, hugging it to him like a security blanket. “I swear to God that jar of mayonnaise weighed like twelve pounds. Hell, the knife is clocking in at at least five,” he complained before shuffling over to collapse to a seat at the table. “So sick,” Dean added in a raspy whisper, giving a shallow cough like an ailing heroine in a period piece.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's histrionics. “I told you yesterday to go see a doctor,” he chided.

“And I told you yesterday to kiss my ass,” Dean muttered irritably, somewhat ruining his carefully crafted illusion of frailty.

“And now _today_,” Sam said pointedly, ”you can’t even put meat between bread by yourself. Why won’t you just go to the clinic?” he frowned, nonetheless offering Dean his newly opened water bottle. Dean just gave it a dirty look and forced himself back upright to argue.

“I hate doctors, man. You go to them for help, and they stand there, when you’re at your most vulnerable, judging your life choices,” he groused.

“It’s called a diagnosis.”

“Besides, they always want to poke you with needles,” Dean shuddered, ignoring the comment. ”You know how I feel about needles.”

“Which is why you have the flu,” said Sam, dangerously close to exasperation. “I, on the other hand, had my flu shot and so don’t need someone else to make sandwiches for me. I tried to get you to come with me.** I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor**,” he said in answer to his brother’s pouting lip. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

“Sam~my,” Dean whined, pouring himself across the table in dramatic fashion. He glanced dolefully toward the sandwich components on the counter and whimpered like a puppy until Sam heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stepped over to pull two slices of bread from the open bag on the counter.

Dean gave a triumphant grin and watched the process of sandwich construction with smug relief. It was a glorious sarnie, piled high with veggies and cheese and the expensive deli meat Dean had insisted on the last time they had gone grocery shopping. Dean wiped absently at the corner of his mouth when Sam turned with his masterpiece in hand, looked as though he could already taste the thing as Sam sat down with it, and he was breathless while he waited for his brother to slide it across the table to him.

Sam didn’t so much as glance in Dean’s direction before taking an enormous bite and chewing it with rapture.

Dean’s wistful smile vanished. “Did you just…?” he stammered, his mouth fallen open with incredulity. He appeared near tears as he watched the first bite slide down Sam’s throat, and when Sam went for a second, Dean gave a small sob.

Sam ignored him. “Dude,” he moaned around a mouthful of the coveted sandwich, “you were right, this meat is really good. You should make yourself one of these before it’s all gone,” he suggested, diving back in for another bite.

Dean stared at him, blank faced. “**I could punch you right now.**”

“**Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?**” Sam asked. “I mean, I’m strong and healthy, and you’re…” Sam scrunched his nose at the sorry state of his increasingly livid older brother. Then he looked Dean straight in the eye and took another mammoth bite.

Dean staggered to his slippered feet and reached across the table, “Gimme that.”

“Hey, get off my sandwich,” Sam scowled, pulling it out of reach, “I made it, it’s mine.”

Sam rose to his feet, too, when Dean rounded the table, his eyes never leaving the prize Sam held aloft. There was a chaos of muttered cursing and swinging arms as Dean struggled to reach his denied lunch.

Sam effortlessly held his ailing brother at arm’s length. “Dude! _Just go to the doctor._”

“I don’t need a doctor, dammit, I need a sandwich!” Dean barked, lunging again.

“Should I…come back later?”

The brothers froze mid-grapple, and their heads swiveled toward their newly arrived guest who was squinting at the scene he’d walked into with cautious confusion.

“Cas!” Dean rushed to tattle, “Sammy’s being mean to me.” He pouted to the angel while still blindly reaching for Sam’s sandwich.

“I am not! Dean’s just being stubborn.”

“Dean’s sick,” Cas observed aloud, seeing Dean’s swipes for Sam’s sandwich grow shorter and shorter with fatigue.

“And he refuses to go to the doctor,” Sam confirmed, throwing Cas a ‘hey, back me up’ look.

Cas walked over to the grunting duo, narrowly avoiding flailing limbs, to lay two fingers on Dean’s forehead. After a brief flare of blue light, Dean’s hands fell away from Sam. His eyes cleared, and Cas smiled seeing the renewed strength that straightened the man’s posture. Dean flexed his hands and arms, testing that strength for himself, and he threw Cas a grateful, lopsided grin before turning to glare murder at his younger brother.

“Now, Dean,” Sam stammered, arm still outstretched to ward Dean off, “I was just trying to get you to take care of yourself. It was for your own good,” he insisted.

Dean didn’t respond. His eyes darted to the sandwich in Sam’s hand and then back to Sam’s face, and Sam mirrored the gesture. “C’mer!” Dean growled, taking a step toward him.

“_Dean!_” Sam began, but when Dean paused to hear what he had to say, Sam abruptly turned to flee the kitchen instead.

Dean stomped purposefully after him, “You better give me that fucking sandwich, Sammy.”

“Cas healed you!” Sam’s voice echoed from the next room, “Make your own sandwich!”

“It’s about the principle now!”

Abandoned, Cas sighed. “I’ll...just wait here, then,” he said to no one, taking a weary seat at the table to do so while the scrape of furniture (accompanied by copious amounts of cursing and the occasional crash) continued to sound throughout the bunker.


End file.
